It Wasn't His Fault
by Swordude
Summary: It had started as a normal enough day. Before he managed to Potter it up worse than anything else he had done before. (Yes, that is an actual term. Dear sweet Hermione had a laugh about that one and Harry learned that his bookworm best friend had a bigger pranking bone in her body than the Weasley twins, his father, and his Dogfather all put together.)


It wasn't his fault.

Really it wasn't.

It wasn't like that time with Fleur, when she was obviously…shall we say 'Hot-for-Harry' and he clearly had the option to say no. _(Not that he would have. He wouldn't trade the resultant little blond-haired, green-eyed daughter for the world …or the blue-eyed blond boy that followed after a suspiciously similar situation a year later.)_

This one was completely not his fault. And he would deny it to the grave.

Which was, ironically, part of the problem.

See, after the whole song-and-dance that was his first seventeen years of his life, Harry emerged from 1997 with a dulled scar, a heavy heart, an incomplete education_ (Pah! NEWTS. Needing those was for normal people)_, and three artifacts of a slightly macabre quality.

Oh. And the Title "**Master of Death**". Can't forget that one, it's slightly important.

Problem was, there was no guide to the title, no how-to manual as it were. The title was quite literally the only thing that Harry could find on the subject, and as much as it stuck fear into the hearts of his enemies "Master of Death" did not a guideline make. Thus he had to figure out through trial and error _(or error and error as his erstwhile dogfather might have said)_ what he could and could not do.

He couldn't fly unassisted. That was disappointing considering he never got around to replacing his Firebolt.

He also had no more wandless magic or transformative power than any given piece of furniture in his cousin Dudley's flat. _(Which interestingly enough, was a non-zero. Harry was pretty sure that the flat was subject to a drunken revenge prank somewhere in the blurry after-party some lesser beings might have called 1998)_

He learned he couldn't apparate silently, nor go great distances without splinching every third limb._ (He also learned, completely unrelated of course, that smacking an attractive witch's rear with a splinched limb, then tossing the limb to someone else in an effort to avert feminine fury can get you laid. Daphne had a strange sense of humor like that.)_

What Harry did learn was that he couldn't die. Not from blunt force trauma_ ("Look BOTH ways for lorries" Hermione had advised. Hah! He showed her!)_, Not from the big green NoNo_ (Frankly it just tickled now)_, Not from gunshots, not from lava, not from drowning _(or pressure for that matter, on a side note, Harry learned that the stuff that lived in the Mariana trench creeped him right the fuck out)_ and not from loss of blood. Harry was sure that at some point in the future he could go all angst-y and insufferable about him outliving everyone he knew and loved, but for now he was young_ (and apparently was going to stay that way)_ and knew nothing about the world and would deal with the future when it came and bit him the ass.

All waffling aside, his problem was that, in his travels about the big blue ball, Harry had repeatedly seen this cute, Goth chick. She changed a little from viewing to viewing, but always had a very pale, nearly Malfoy-esque level of pale (_not AS pale as Malfoy, because if you ever were at that point you were WAY too far gone for help)_ with a fritz of black hair and an ebony makeup swirl near one eye. Usually dressed in a black halter-top and dark blue jeans, sometimes with a jacket, other times without. Additionally, she always had a silver necklace in the shape of an Egyptian Ankh._ (When he later learned who, or rather what she was he appreciated the irony immensely)_

At first he just passed it off as a coincidence, figuring that Goth was just as likely as any other fashion trend to show up, until he actually ended up talking to her.

The first conversation between the two of them was nothing ground breaking, in fact Harry, if pressed, would admit he spent most of it trying to look down the front of her, rather loose, top. _(If pressed further Harry would justify that it was impossible to do otherwise considering he had a foot and a half on her. Then he would politely tell you to stop pressing him, or he would stick you to the ceiling by your forehead and heels)._

The second conversation wasn't much better. _(Especially since she was wore a tighter top that day)_ Though she seemed a little confused that he was talking to her _(Which in hindsight made sense)_.

The third was cut off in the middle by some rude bloke having the sheer nerve to attempt to jump in front of a train right in front of them. Harry had _accio_'d him back out and handed him off to a rather bewildered security guard before turning back to Goth Girl just in time to see her give him a calculating look and wave before disappearing into the crowd.

_(It was only then that he realized that he had performed magic in front of a subway full of muggles. Oops. But then again, he had seen a bloke flying around with his red pants on the outside of his trousers earlier just that day and no one had looked twice. Maybe America was just nutters like that.)_

It was the fourth meeting that had led to the present problem. Not that he knew it at the time. See he had been going about his day, journeying around a city_ (Some bright future-opolis or something like that)_, and absentmindedly saving a person or two from an untimely demise when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

It was the same girl as before. Claiming to have seen him save some guy again and wanting to talk to him about it. Always happy to spend time with an attractive girl, Harry followed her to a small, remote, hole-in-the-wall of a coffee shop. _(It was really out of the way considering they moved though non-space to get there, hey He's a wizard, figuring out that stuff in his job description.)_ The banter was kept pretty light, peppered with jokes and needles about the other until she dropped the bomb on him.

She was Death. With a capital 'D'. Not the representation of, avatar of, or goddess of, just Death. And he had stopped her from doing her job.

Now most would think that _this_ was the problem that Harry was in.

Most would be wrong.

Harry honestly felt pretty nonchalant about the whole thing, and Death was more curious on how he had been doing what he did rather than cross. This led to an explanation on Harry's part about his titles and findings thereon. This discussion somehow wound up with him nude on a bed and the living embodiment of the cessation of life bouncing up and down on him.

That was where the problem was created.

The fourth meeting ended in a rather sordid fashion, but both parties went their separate ways with grins on their faces.

The fifth meeting was when the problem was introduced to Harry.

It had started as a normal enough day. Before he managed to Potter it up worse than anything else he had done before. _(Yes, that is an actual term. Dear sweet Hermione had a laugh about that one and Harry learned that his bookworm best friend had a bigger pranking bone in her body than the Weasley twins, his father, and his Dogfather all put together when the new millennium edition Wizarding dictionary came out.)_ He had been walking down the street in some other, very moody, city when he suddenly found himself stopping a mugging and saving a woman and child from being shot by turning the mugger's gun into a particularly irate salmon. _(Though he WAS too late to save the father to his consternation.)_ Shrugging off their promises of rewards Harry had turned the corner only to find himself in the coffee shop again and facing Death once again.

She looked the same as the last time he had seen her. _(Well with more clothing but that's not the point)_ Well. With one exception, she looked like she was hiding a basketball under her black halter-top and fishnet. All he needed was one rather amused look from Death to know that somewhere, Hermione would be dying of laughter at how bad he Pottered this one.

He. Harry Potter. Had knocked up Death.

Harry had felt surprise. Then curiosity. Then dread. Then a slight bit of pride. Then a light bit of lust. Then he realized that he was going to be a father again.

Death was laughing when he came to again. Apparently she had already come to terms with this and wanted to see his reaction. She was quite surprised though when Harry offered marriage with the ring he figured most appropriate. _(Womanizer or not, Harry did have morals, Ultimate universal personification or not)_

See, meeting Death wasn't the problem, the sex most definitely wasn't the problem, the pregnancy even, wasn't the problem. The problem was that she said yes, put on the ring and then Harry promptly had his conception of the everything explode.

The magic Harry was used to created bonds quite readily, in fact there are whole section of magical theory stating that EVERYTHING magic does involves the creation, dissolution, and manipulation of these bonds. Harry had bonded to the Deathly Hollows, and they him. This initial bond was what allowed Harry to perceive Death as she was. When one magic user undergoes certain rituals those selfsame rituals can, and usually act as a bonding agent between others undergoing the same. It turns out that a marriage proposal, using something that is literally part of both the proposer and the recipient of the proposition, that in and of itself is a heavily magic artifact capable of bridging the gap between death and non-death will make a fairly strong bond.

Who knew.

Well since bonding usually involves a part of each bonder being exchanged and one of the bonders is Death there is a fairly obvious outcome. Except for one thing: Harry, as** Master of Death**, cannot die, not even to Death. Which meant that he now existed with a portion of the power and being of The Death of the Endless inside of him. _(The obvious joke of her being inside him the same way he was with her going unsaid)_

Fortunately, Harry now had an eternity to come to terms with this. Unfortunately, he now had slightly more responsibilities than he ever wanted. Even more unfortunately, he now knew of at least one ultra-powerful sibling who might be interested as to why the proposal came after the impregnation. At least he didn't need to sleep any more right?

Right Death?

Bugger.

Maybe they'd let off if he let them hold their nephew.

* * *

><p><strong>No, I don't know where this came from, leave off it's 4 AM.<strong>


End file.
